To know Malaysia is to love Malaysia
by ZeroGarde
Summary: How could you possibly tell Sazali Kirkland to stay sane? His mom was dead, his dad was ignoring him, his uncle was moving away; and he was pretty sure the new kid was plotting something against him. Why? He has no idea. Rated T for (some) violence, no pairings, (slightly) Dark!Japan, Male!Malaysia, Portugal, (possible appearance of) Netherlands, England, America, Sealand, Canada


_**-Author's notes: Hola people. Okay, I know this story looks very amateur-ish, and therefore not good enough. Which is precisely why I welcome any form of advice that you are able to offer me. I actually wrote this story because I have yet to find a fanfic which involves the Kirklands (and by the I mean England/America/ Canada and Malaysia. Take note that the Malaysia I'm using is a character I found on that one site where everyone submits their OC's. It's pretty legit, so yeah. BTW Malaysia's a male. Do forgive my grammatical mistakes and lack of colourful imagination ;~; -**_

"Why? Why? WHY? WHAT DID I EVER DO TO YOU?"  
The same question had been echoing throughout the entire house for days now, materialising in the form of a certain prepubescent male's voice.  
Night after night, he'd been plagued by the thought of being stomped to dust by a fellow classmate of his. And every night, the same scene would be played through his mind. Cold, steely eyes- hollowed of the owner's irises would gaze upon the boy's head. He'd shiver, but still attempt to approach the other cautiously so as to not provoke him. It was in his blood—trying to settle an argument through words rather than violence (even if he had no idea what the boy was mad about).  
"Listen, we can talk about this. I'll try to better myself, I'll never get in your way again" he'd say. But no, the other wouldn't have it. The ear-shattering sound of steel being dragged across the concrete floor would echo throughout the empty space of the medium-sized room, sending cold shivers down the helpless one's spine. No place to run, no time to dodge...everything just _happened_; it was as if he had no control over the situation at all, even if he knew that this was all a play set up by his stressed mind. His helplessness in changing his fate, accompanied the fact that he can do nothing but accept the impact of the metallic weapon against his abdomen and suffer from the pain was exactly what had frightened him. It all seemed so _real; _and yet, it never was_. _  
All of a sudden, he'd wake up sweating and heaving. That was exactly how his nights have been for these past few days.

His dominant hand immediately shot up to rest upon his thumping heart.  
Alive.  
He was alive.  
He may be sweating and heaving like a madman...but he was alive; he'd rejoice at the thought, if it weren't for the sudden realisation of the possibility of him being haunted by the same dream tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that...

One would think that the panicked shrieks of a child would be enough to wake up the entire neighbourhood. However, wait as he may, nobody was coming up to his room to check on him. No thumping of footsteps clumsily running up the stairs, no blond-haired man to barge in and demand answers as to why he found 3.a.m to be the absolute perfect time to start screaming like a maniac. None of that had happened. None of it had ever happened. Arthur had been particularly busy during the past few weeks, what with Alfred finally reaching puberty. The blond-haired boy had immediately accepted a bet of 'picking up a policewoman', as issued by a friend of his and lets just say he's been arrested far too many times for a boy in his early teens.

And so there he sat; quivering and shaking as he started to choke on his own breath. Dark brown eyes scanned through the entire room wildly, trying to find the one thing his uncle had given him while he was visiting last month—his inhaler. Where had he put it?  
'Oh God….not now, please, NOT NOW,' his mind chimed.  
Why the sudden attack?  
Why now, of all times?  
He had been worried the nightmares might cause something like this eventually, but he hadn't figured it was going to be today.  
The lack of oxygen was, perhaps already getting to him, as he suddenly remembered that he'd placed his inhaler on his nightstand just last evening. Hastily, he grabbed the object – knocking a radio-like device that was sitting next to it as he did—and shoved it into his already-dry mouth.  
The sensation of being able to breathe again, however, did not arrive even as he pressed onto the top part of the canister with as much force his oxygen-deprived fingers could manage. Instead, his chest only seemed to tighten even more.  
The reality of the situation had only sunk in upon his third attempt to relieve himself of the pain.  
His inhaler was empty. And the only spare he had was somewhere in the living room downstairs and there was absolutely no way he was going to be able to reach there in time before he...well, you know.  
The hallway leading from his room to the stairway was practically as long as half the length of a football field; it would take approximately 2-3 minutes for him to walk down the stairs (assuming he doesn't lose his balance and fall), 2 minutes to look for the light switch (provided he was still in good enough shape to stand upright) and another 3 minutes to look for his inhaler (keep in mind that this could take up to 10 minutes depending on his memory of where he'd place the object). The entire thing could take up to 20 minutes, and even if he did manage to find it, it would be too late for him by then.

Sharp, pained sounds were already beginning to generate from his trachea; this is bad. This is very, very bad.  
'This was it,' he thought.  
'This is how I'll die'.  
Multiple thoughts of being found dead the next morning by either his father or uncle materialised. What would dad do if he saw him lying on the floor lifeless? How would Uncle Henrique react when he suddenly popped up for a visit and find his favourite nephew dead, next to an empty inhaler?  
Well, for one thing, dad would probably comment on how ridiculously messy his room was, and uncle Henrique would...perhaps, not notice him and instead wander around the house in search for him before accidentally stumbling upon his body purely by accident.  
Scenario upon scenario managed to make its way into his now-foggy mind.  
Nobody was going to save him, so why bother anymore?  
He inhaled what little bit of air he was able to take in one last, painful time. 

_**/So. Um. Yeah. Sazali has asthma. Imsorryihadtodoitdon'tlookatmelikethat/**_


End file.
